


Unwrap Him

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: Petals and Ink [2]
Category: True Detective
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Dirty Talk, Domestic, Dubious Consent (Mentioned: Ginger/Rust), Flowers, Food Kink, Kinda, Lingerie, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Romance, Topping from the Bottom, a happy and healthy relationship: the ultimate kink, bottom!Marty, eight thousand words of gratuitous fluff and sex, with some added lingerie of course, you will not find plot here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-27 11:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10017443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: "Lace is just so lovely, ain’t it? Like a nice ribbon on an expensive gift, somethin’ you’re really keen to open. Y’get me?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hieroglyphics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hieroglyphics/gifts), [blackeyedblonde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/gifts).



Marty Hart was not a man of subtleties.

He was clever, but when it came to emotions he may as well have shouted his intentions from the rooftops. In defending those that he loved he was vicious and wild-eyed, and in passion he was utterly unrestrained. He threw himself into devotion and left nothing behind. The physicality of his love was intense and unhindered by shame; he had a gluttonous hunger for sex, partnered with a need for tactility. He liked to kiss and be kissed, to be explored and to explore. He liked to be close to Rust, to be against him when they slept together. Chests bumping, skin rubbing, open mouths messily slotting together, words mingling around harsh breaths.

He hadn’t asked Rust for things to change. He hadn’t complained that he was always the one on his back, or on his chest, gasping as Rust’s body moved sinuously, apologetically, against him. Rust knew Marty loved it. Loved being taken, in a way that Rust was sure he’d never be able to understand. Rust adored taking him too. The way he could feel tension slide from his shoulders, ebbing out of him, until the rest of the world abandoned them, left them to worship each other in peace. He adored kissing Marty, because the glide of his tongue always made Marty hum and curse, as if irritated that time existed, like he wanted Rust everywhere at once.

But he was torn.

They were lovers. That much was a given, now. ‘Boyfriends’ seemed… an inappropriate term. Rust found it too childish, not something he could identify with. He supposed they were just _them._ Together. Rust’s clothes were creeping into Marty’s draws. Furniture was steadily appearing as Marty grumbled at the lack of homeliness in Rust’s very Spartan apartment– and took it upon himself to drag a couch, a bed, and even a bookshelf into Rust’s home.

Lovers, Rust reasoned, should be equal.

He wanted to offer himself to Marty, in the same way that Marty could so easily. He wanted to be _fine_ with it, wanted to let the memory of Ginger’s hands disappear into irrelevance­– he desperately wished he wouldn’t think of that vile man when he felt Marty inside him.

But he was frightened.

 

***

 

They lay beside each other, panting.

Car beams from the road beside Rust’s apartment moved through the room like ghosts. They decorated the ceiling, orange and white and red, like fire. Marty felt his head swimming, body tingling, and when he looked over at Rust he was spellbound.

His skin seemed smooth in the darkness, and the lights slipped down from the ceiling to paint his cheeks and colour his jaw; Marty’s eyes followed their path, moving down Rust’s body, across the angles of his collarbone, the muscular tightness of his abdomen, the dampness between his legs, and up the knee he had raised towards the ceiling, his right foot beside his left calf. He was breathing hard, just like Marty. The tattoos on his chest moved with his skin, surreal in the darkness.

Marty listened to the hush of traffic nearby, and their breathing. He felt content. Heavy, even; weighed down by everything they’d just done, slack from the intensity of it. Even just thinking back to a few minutes before– how Rust had looked down at him, composure utterly shattering as he came, a sound falling from his mouth that was pure sin– had Marty blushing. There was still a part of him that couldn’t believe this was his reality.

“I could look at you forever,” Marty murmured.

Rust looked over at that, and his expression was indecipherable in the darkness. A flash of orange moved over his features, and Marty thought he saw a small smile on those clever lips.

“You ain’t so bad yourself.” Rust replied quietly. One of his hands drifted up to Marty’s face, and Marty pressed his lips against the offered palm.

“Always sounds louder, afterwards,” Marty said, “d’you know what I mean?”

“What sounds louder?”

“Us. Your voice.” Marty rolled onto his stomach, the softness of his side pressing against Rust’s lean form. “I love your voice, Rust.”

Rust looked up at him, and the next flare of light undoubtedly revealed amusement in his darkened eyes.

“Shit, you can’t be ready to go again, Marty. Surely.”

“Never said I was.” Marty dipped his head down, lips meeting the hollow of Rust’s throat gently.

“…What’re you doin’, then?”

“What’s it look like?” Marty licked into the curve of his skin, eyes falling closed. “Just wanna touch you.”

“You ain’t gotta. You’ve given me enough tonight.”

Marty paused. He hated knowing that Rust felt like he owed something. That his fears were a fault, instead of something he couldn’t control. He’d never brought it up, not directly, but Marty knew fully well that Rust hated touching him on some nights. Because touch came with the echoes of pain felt long ago. Power, now made beautiful by the security of trust, had once been forced on him. The distinction between _now_ and _before_ wasn’t always secure in his mind.

“D’you want me to stop?” He asked quietly, because he knew how Rust worked. He couldn’t address the bigger issue, not until Rust let him. He couldn’t push.

After a moment, he felt a hand in his hair, Rust’s shoulder moving as he reached up.

“Nah,” Rust murmured.

So Marty continued. Kissing him, softly, eyes closed. In worship. Tongue curling along the edge of tattoos, tasting the salty pleasantness of sweat over ink. Rust’s hand played idly with his hair, rubbing strands of blond between the pads of his fingers. Marty lifted his knee over Rust’s legs, moved on top of him, hands braced on either side of Rust’s body. It was different, this quiet closeness. Removed from the urgency of sex, they were left with a tenderness, a patience. It would’ve once been awkward– but they knew their bodies, their minds, their hearts, far too well to be uncomfortable in these moments.

“Feels nice, actually.” Rust added eventually.

Marty smiled against Rust’s ribs, counting that as a victory. He smoothed his thumb over the words _NO GODS,_ feeling the texture of the tattoo before he wet the letters with his tongue. He felt Rust’s fingers tighten in his hair at the suggestion of teeth.

“Y’know,” Marty said, his words slow with lust, “I’ve been told I’m pretty good with my mouth.”

Marty felt, rather than heard, Rust chuckle.

“I ain’t no woman. Think my junk might work a little different than what you’re used to.”

Marty laughed. A truck hummed past the window, a drone of traffic interrupting them. Marty’s lips made a gentle noise against Rust’s skin, the intimacy of that sound countering the cars outside.

“Yeah, well, I learn fast.”

He continued his attentions to Rust’s chest and abdomen, gave him time to protest, to refuse. When no such objection came, Marty lifted himself up on tired arms, eyebrows raised in a silent inquiry. Rust looked back at him, and the stressed indentations on his forehead were evident even in darkness.

“If you don’t want it, you can say.” Marty said.

Rust swallowed. “Guess I just…”

His gaze flickered away, hand wandering from Marty’s hair to his neck, fingers palming skin in an expression of apologetic devotion that had Marty’s chest tightening with sorrow.

“I hate seein’ you upset, Rust.” He said, dropping his chin onto Rust’s sternum, looking up at him with an easy smile, because he knew diffusing the situation was the only way to make Rust comfortable. “Talk to me?”

Rust, despite himself, smiled for a moment. But only a moment. The undulating mess of colours blinking across his face revealed his features settling into a cold, guarded expressionlessness. The kind of blankness that only showed up to protect deep pain. Marty’s heart sunk.

“If you wanna fuck me, Marty, just say. I can take it.”

His words were flat and forced. Marty lifted his chin off Rust’s chest, rubbed at his eyes.

“Don’t say that, Rust.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t… You don’t owe me that.”

“I do. You shouldn’t always be the one that has to deal with bein’ on your back.”

“Shit, Rust, I don’t have to…” Marty heard the intensity of his tone, swallowed down his words and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He didn’t want to start a fight. “I don’t have to _deal_ with it. I _like_ it.”

Rust turned his face to the side, closed his eyes. Marty reached over, curled a hand over Rust’s jaw. Held him, just like that. Gentle. Safe.

Marty stayed like that for a while. Let Rust take his time. Listened to the traffic, felt Rust breathing under him. Marty was still lying against him, their naked bodies pressed together. Revealed only in pieces by the lights, their entwined limbs and skin were a scene of flesh, a private artwork. Marty thought about it, occasionally; what they looked like, together. Who they were, when they were close like this. Who he’d become, and how much he’d changed.

Eventually, Rust opened his eyes, head still craned to the side. Marty watched his mouth tighten, his jaw flexing with barely-contained stress. He was tense, tendons straining in his neck– as if he were moments away from pushing Marty off and walking away.

“Feel like I should… be able to give you that. Give you that part of me.”

Marty smiled sadly. “I know. But you ain’t gotta. And, if you’re worried ‘bout me not enjoyin’ this, you can stop that damn train of thought, a’ight? Like I said the first night, Rust,” Marty tapped a thumb lightly against Rust’s cheekbone, “if I didn’t want this, I’d have fucked off right away.”

Rust looked up at that, wry amusement twitching at his eyes. “Guess I have trouble believin’ that, some nights.”

“I know.” Marty moved his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. “I know, babe.”

Rust huffed out a laugh. “Don’t call me that.”

Marty grinned. He felt the mood lighten, and relief filled him.

“I’ll call you what I want,” he leaned forward, pressed a kiss against the corner of Rust’s mouth, “ _sweetie.”_

“You fuckin’ moron.” Rust muttered.

Marty kissed his cheek. “Mm. You love it.”

“I do.” Rust sighed. “Damn, Marty. Don’t know why you put up with me.”

Marty continued peppering him with kisses, running a hand down his chest. Feeling the sinewy curves of muscle and bone. He tried not to let it bother him, the things Rust said. He had to trust that time would heal Rust. That patience would save him from what had already passed.

“I love it,” Marty whispered, “I love it, Rust. I promise. I ain’t gotta force myself to be with you.”

Rust’s sigh shivered from his lips, and then the hand on Marty’s neck was pulling him forward, yanking them together. He kissed Marty hard, harder than expected. Something about trust, about compassion and patience– it turned Rust on. It was the most vanilla kink Marty had ever encountered, and also the saddest; after all, the only reason Rust viewed healthy desire as something so special was because he was so unused to it.

“I don’t wanna put you in a position that makes you uncomfortable,” Marty breathed, “if you wanna change things up a bit, but keep it good for both of us, I’ve got an idea.”

Rust hummed a questioning reply into his mouth, and Marty felt himself getting hard again. He reached down, sought out Rust’s cock with fumbling fingers– his breath jumped when he found Rust was getting hard as well.

“I ain’t never been in your lap before. Reckon I might like it. Reckon you might like it, too. Wanna ride you, Rust.”

“Fuck, Marty,” Rust sounded wrecked, “we only finished a while ago, you’ll be sore tomorrow if we-”

“Maybe I want that.” Marty moved his hand up and down, felt Rust’s grip on his neck tighten, “Maybe I wanna feel you tomorrow, when I’m sellin’ flowers to the old ladies down the street. Be thinkin’ of you, right across the road. Thinkin’ of you _fucking_ me, Rust.”

"Shit..." Rust laughed helplessly, disbelievingly, his voice a growl of sound. “You sound like a goddamn whore.”

Marty grinned against his mouth, teeth white in the dark, blond hair shining whenever lights moved over him. He leaned forward, lips at Rust’s ear.

“So fuck me like one."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Rust was seated at the kitchen table, elbows resting beside his plate as he read the newspaper. His shoulders and upper body filled out the white suit shirt that he’d left unbuttoned to his sternum, and he’d rolled his sleeves up to reveal the intricate bird designs on his forearms. His hair, longer now than it had been when they’d met, was tied up with an old scrap of frayed leather, wavy strands escaping down the side of his face and brushing his cheekbones. A full pot of coffee sat steaming in the middle of the table, beside a pile of syrup-coated pancakes and a bowl of fruit. The whole spectacle was framed by gentle morning light.

Marty scowled at him, rubbing at the small of his back as he approached. His bare feet made shuffling noises against on the floor, announcing his arrival.

“You’re too fuckin’ attractive,” he muttered angrily as he bent down to kiss Rust’s cheek.

“Good mornin’ to you too, Marty,” Rust replied calmly, without looking away from his newspaper.

“You look like you belong in a fuckin’ glossy magazine.” Marty sat down, stabbed a fork into a lump of pancakes, grabbed a handful of fruit and dumped it on his plate. Rust lowered the newspaper, raising his eyebrows dryly.

Marty took a bite of pancake, swallowed, and threw up his hands. “And you can fuckin’ _cook._ Fuck you, man. You and your stupid perfect self.”

The corner of Rust’s mouth tilted up in a smile, and he straightened out the newspaper, returning his attention to reading. Marty allowed himself a smile too, and continued eating.

“You feelin’ sore?” Rust asked.

“Is that why you’ve made me breakfast?” Rust hummed an affirmative reply, and Marty shrugged, laughing incredulously. “You didn’t have to, but hell, I ain’t complainin’.”

He poured himself some coffee, gestured for Rust’s empty mug. Rust handed it over, folded the newspaper in half and handed that over too. Marty made a happy noise and set it beside him. He liked to peer over at the paper while he ate. It’d driven Maggie mad during their marriage, but Rust didn’t really seem to give a shit.

“Y’know,” Marty said around a chunk of pancake, as he handed Rust's mug back to him, “white looks good on you.”

“That your way of sayin’ we’re gettin’ engaged?”

Marty nearly choked. “If we were gettin’ engaged, you smartass, I’d have asked you properly.”

Rust had a sip of his coffee, straight-faced as ever. “Good to know.”

Marty cleared his throat, cheeks hot with a blush. “Just sayin’, white suits you. Everyone’s got a colour that makes them look good, don’t you think?”

Rust considered that, and Marty didn’t miss the way his eyes moved up and down.

“What’s that look for?” Marty wearily asked.

“Nothin’,” Rust drawled quietly, “Just reckon your colour is blue, that’s all.”

Marty snorted. “You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause my eyes are blue.”

“No, you moron. Sayin’ it ‘cause it fuckin’ suits you.”

“Yeah, sure.” The observation, for some reason, felt like a compliment of riches, and Marty found himself sweetly embarrassed by it. He looked down at his plate, blushing again.

“Maggie’s colour was yellow,” he muttered, trying to change the subject, “really softened her, y’know? She had this underwear set, proper lingerie shit. Yellow lace. Looked amazing.”

Rust was silent for a moment. Marty continued to look at his plate.

“You like that on her? Lingerie?”

Marty shrugged, not knowing why Rust was asking, but not bothered by the question. They’d discussed more private things in the past.

“Yeah, guess so. She didn’t like wearin’ it often, usually couldn’t be bothered, but… I dunno, lace is just so lovely, ain’t it? Like a nice ribbon on an expensive gift, somethin’ you’re really keen to open. Y’get me?”

He looked up with a wink, grinning wide with the cheeky and immature humour that, despite being wholly uncreative, always made Rust smile anyway.

“…Yeah, Marty. I get it.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qiosang, a long-haired Rust for you~~ ;D


	3. Chapter 3

To say that Rust felt uncomfortable would’ve been a massive understatement.

He didn’t belong here, with his tattoos and his leather jacket, a cigarette stuck in his mouth and a perpetual scowl to match his discomfort. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and tried to think of Marty. Of what his reaction would be, and the look in his eyes that would make this all worth it.

He felt like a dirty stain in the pristine lightness of the store, surrounded by women’s clothes and middle-aged mothers who looked him over a few times, an obvious conflict between fear and attraction playing out on their faces. He glared around him, focussing on the walls and ceilings, sucking deeply on his cigarette and wishing the smoke were more comforting.

“Can you hurry the fuck up, Jake?”

Jake, unbothered by the surly aggressiveness of his words, chuckled quietly.

“This was your idea, sunshine,” she said as she curiously regarded a camisole, then put it back in its rack, “I’m probably not the best cover for this, you know. I’d sooner die than wear any of this shit.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t got tits, so I couldn’t have come here alone.” Rust held his cigarette between two fingers, breathed deep, then pulled it away and expelled a cloud of smoke into the air. “’Sides, I’ve covered for _you_ heaps of times.”

Jake smiled, flipped through a row of coat hangers. “Yeah, you have. I appreciate that, by the way. Never felt comfortable going to the men’s section alone.”

Rust nodded, glancing around the store nervously. He pressed his lips together and wondered whether anyone knew. The suspicious store manager, the soccer mom, the pack of schoolgirls hovering a few rows behind them and blatantly checking him out– did any of them know? Did they know that he was here to try and find some fucking _lingerie_ to wear at home with his _male lover?_ Shit, Rust had never been ashamed of who he was before, but he’d never done anything like this in the past. The stares and the cameras all felt focussed on him.

“He might like this.” Jake held up a set of underwear, and Rust stepped back, away from her. She got the message and turned away from him, so that it appeared she was only looking for herself.

“D’you really think,” Rust growled, sliding his cigarette back between his lips, “I’m gonna wear _pink?”_

Jake laughed, pressed a hand to her face.

“Don’t be an asshole, Jake. Fuck.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she chortled, plainly _not_ sorry. She put the set back and tried to stifle her laughter, lips pressed together into a twitching smile.

Rust shook his head, irritated at himself for even thinking that this was a good idea. Just as he was opening his mouth to tell her, _‘fuck it, let’s go’,_ he saw it.

It was another underwear set, this time accompanied by an intricate piece of fabric, draped over the hanger elegantly. White, with tiny flowers sewn into the lace, fragile and delicate. It was something a woman would wear on her wedding night. Something pure, something symbolically virginal. Rust swallowed hard and wondered at the heat in his cheeks, the sudden sprint of his heart’s beat. Just the thought of wearing this for Marty, looking beautiful for him… it caught him off-guard, how much he wanted to slide that garment over his shoulders. He’d deceived himself into thinking that this was simply a gesture, a way of giving Marty something special on his birthday– the idea that he wanted this for himself too was one that stunned him, made him flustered beyond belief. He didn't like how he looked. He'd never felt comfortable drawing attention to his body. But he could imagine himself wearing it, lying back and feeling the softness of fabric against him. He  _wanted_ Marty to see him like that, body presented like an offering. He  _wanted_ to be beautiful.

He took a slow breath, nudged Jake’s shoulder with his knuckles.

“Over my left shoulder, on the rack,” he murmured, “the white one.”

She looked, and grinned, eyes lighting up with approval. He looked to the side of her face, jaw tight.

“Goes without sayin’,” he muttered, “but thanks for comin' today, Jake.”

She nodded and walked away, brushing her fingers over his wrist as she went. She didn’t feel the need for dramatic proclamations of affection, and he appreciated that. Somehow, it felt even more special this way. The trust between them. They were surely father and a daughter, in another life.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Rust had never liked mirrors. As a child, the only reason for looking at his reflection was to comb his hair or to shave, his father’s hand hard and steady against his shoulder, directing his movements with a strict and emotionless voice. Telling him how he needed to look, telling him that a man should take care in his appearance. It was a robotic relationship that they had, in those moments. Rust had felt so small next to his father, cramped into their tiny shared bathroom, suffocated by his closeness and daunted by the violence that always seemed moments away from erupting. His father hadn’t often hit him, but he was old-fashioned. No expressions of affection. No casual remarks of fatherly pride. His standards and expectations distanced them, and when they stood so close Rust had always– even as a child– felt like he was beside a stranger. Calloused hands holding his chin, tipping his head back as a razor slowly made its way up his skin. Rust’s father hadn’t believed in modern razors. No, he had always used a cutthroat blade. _‘Stay still, boy’,_ he’d said the first time, and Rust had frozen in place, eyes cast upwards towards the ceiling as he experienced a terror that was alien to his peers. He’d never been young, not in the same way they had.

He hadn’t been entirely confident that his father’s hands– which often shook with the tremors of a severe alcoholic– wouldn’t slip, so maybe that was when it had started. Associating his reflection with fear.

For a while, his reflection had been accompanied by Claire and their child, and he’d learned to love his hands when he saw them sliding protectively over the curve of her pregnant stomach. He’d found himself likeable, when he was with her. Pressed against her back, face in the curve of her neck, both of them swaying as she hummed her quiet songs and they talked about what to name their baby girl. He’d seen himself transforming into a father, being reborn into the safety of family. That comfort had been ripped from him. He’d smashed the mirror in their bedroom, sat dazedly on the floor and let the shards cut into his legs, loss shocking him into a stupor that would last years. Soon after that came Ginger, with his hands and his drugs, bruising Rust in a way that made his eyes hollow and his gait unsteady. He’d never looked in the mirror, not after being branded with that kind of violence. He'd never gone to the doctor, either. He didn’t want to see himself, and he didn’t want to be seen.

But now…

Now, everything was different.

Marty’s bedroom had a mirror proudly displayed on the wall, a full-length one, and Rust stood calmly in front of it. Before, he’d always needed to force himself to look. Always had to _try_ so damn hard, railing against the dark thoughts he had been certain were permanently etched into the synapses of his brain.

But on this afternoon, he didn’t need to try.

He looked at himself. Properly, in a way he never had before. What he saw made his breath hitch, and when he shifted on his feet he felt the silken underwear move against him, pressing tightly in new and previously undiscovered ways. Lace tickled him, and he had to resist the urge to scratch at it. He took the sheer white garment off the bed and draped it over his shoulders, feeling the hem brush his thighs, whisper against his skin. He licked at his lips, tasted strawberry, eyes fixed on the shine of pink that decorated his mouth. The way he’d tied back his hair made him look elegantly feminine; it sat loose against the sides of his face, curls against his cheeks, softening his jawline. Jake had bought him some mascara and spent the better part of twenty minutes applying it while he grumbled and twitched throughout the entire process. But the result meant his eyes were framed, seeming brighter and more noticeable, and he blinked slowly just to watch his eyelids dip, see the heavy lust in his own gaze. It had certainly been worth it.

He ran a hand down his chest, fingers faltering against the lace that clung to the curve of his hip. His heart was racing. He couldn't look away from himself.

 _Shit,_ he thought, cheeks blazing, feeling the warm swell of arousal humming through his veins and creeping down his abdomen, _Shit, I like this. I like it._

He breathed in shakily, feeling unsteady. He pressed two fingers to the pulse in his neck, tried to calm himself. It didn’t work. It was almost funny to think that, after everything he’d been through and every situation he’d dealt with, _this_ would be the thing to catch him off-guard.

He wondered what Marty would think. How he would react. What he would say.

In an effort to try and distract himself, Rust turned away from his reflection, a warm feeling blooming in his chest as he immersed himself in the knowledge that, for once, he wasn’t turning away out of shame. He was turning away because looking felt _too good._

He walked to the bedside table, where he’d set down a vase of white lilies beside the lamp. He played with their positioning, feeling like an amateur. He knew that Marty could do better.

Next to the lilies sat a crystal bowl of caramel sweets, catching the afternoon sun, the glimmering of the crystal painting the succulent orange squares with flecks of light. He’d gone out to Marty’s garden this morning and picked a handful of small white roses, placed them carefully around the caramels and tried his best to create some kind of arrangement. It looked silly, he was sure– but fuck it, he wanted to make this a special night for Marty. He felt an odd mix of pride and nerves as he looked down at his handiwork. A voice in the back of his head whispered, _what if he thinks it’s stupid? What if he thinks you’re a freak? He didn’t sign up for this shit._

Rust forced away his doubt and lay down on the bed, eager to be ready and presentable when Marty returned home. When he pressed his hips against the sheets, his eyes snapped closed, and he realised how hard he was. His heart was beating so, so fast. He was almost shaking with it. Fuck, Marty hadn’t even set foot in the room yet. Rust was sure that, the moment those blue eyes were focussed on him, he’d be helpless. The intensity of it all, the _newness_ of everything he was experiencing, made him feel lightheaded. He'd never have imagined he could be like this again; so exposed, so trusting. Not after Ginger.

Rust heard the sound of Marty’s front door opening, and he froze.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

He’d thought Marty wouldn’t be home for another half an hour, at least. Rust looked around, panicked, desperately trying to ensure that everything was ready. He stretched his arms out in front of him and then immediately pulled them back, folded his hands under his chin, trying to decide how to pose. Acting on some kind of terrified instinct, he held his breath, throat tight and face hot. Not knowing what to do, how to position himself, he grabbed a book that he’d been reading earlier that day and decided nonchalance was his best bet.

 _Shit,_ he thought, forcing a breath down his throat, trying not to gasp, _shit, shit shit._

“Rust? Rust, where’re you at?”

“In here,” Rust called out, voice unsteady as he opened up his book to a random page.

He heard Marty’s footsteps approach, and a feeling of rabid excitement and nervousness pummelled through him. He held the book tightly in his hands.

The doorknob started to turn, and Rust had never felt more alive.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Marty closed the front door behind him, slid his jacket off his shoulders and hung it on the hooks– he’d installed them recently, out of sheer necessity as Rust’s clothes started to migrate to his house. He wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, found a beer and cracked it open.

“Rust?” He called out, his keys making a clang as he dropped them in in the metal bowl he kept on the edge of the bench. He frowned, listening for an answer. When none was forthcoming, he wandered into the hallway. Noticing that his bedroom door was closed, Marty paused; he and Rust were pretty casual about their bodies, but if Rust was changing then he generally announced his presence first. It was just politeness, more than anything else. A man’s privacy is a man’s privacy.

“Rust, where’re you at?” He called out cautiously.

“In here,” came the reply, and Marty felt a worried suspicion seize his gut. Rust’s voice sounded… off. Horror stories of bruises and the remnants of white powder on Rust’s face filled his mind, and the memory of seeing Rust unconscious flashed before his eyes. He shook his head and scratched at his frazzled blond hair, thinking, _Don’t jump to conclusions, shit._

It took a surprising amount of courage to walk forward and open the door. He was already planning the things he would say to counter Rust’s pain, the ways he would touch him to try and start the healing again. There was a certain kind of desperation that came with dating Rustin Cohle. But hell, Marty loved him, and he’d never wish for anything to change. He just had to accept his responsibilities.

“’Ey,” Marty said carefully as he opened the door, “you good…?”

He stopped where he was, hand on the doorknob. In fact, though he didn’t realise it, he clung to the door and gripped his beer tight, eyes widening, words dying in his throat and thoughts utterly vacating his brain as he tried to figure out what the _fuck_ he was looking at.

Rust’s shoulders moved under delicate white fabric, lace and embroidery so fine that it was almost transparent against him; a sheen of soft, floating material, fair and light over the tattoos that covered his skin. His hair was pulled back with a white ribbon, bound loosely at the nape of his brown neck. He was reading a book where he lay, stretched out on his stomach like a sun-warmed cat. He had one leg bent at the knee, foot lazily hanging in the air. The meaty roundness of his thighs was interrupted by lace, and a pair of panties clung enticingly to the curve of his ass.

Rust turned a page of his book. Didn’t look up. His downcast eyes and tight shoulders revealed embarrassment, but the way he shifted his hips against the sheets suggested another emotion entirely. His lips shone with the pink blush of lip gloss.

“Happy birthday.” He muttered, sounding gruff and shy.

“…Uh,” Marty leaned against the doorway, feeling faint. “What… What’re you doin’, Rust?”

“You said you liked this sorta stuff.”

“Yeah, on… On Maggie.”

Rust did look up, then, and glanced pointedly at the already-tented front of Marty’s jeans.

“You ain’t foolin’ nobody, Marty.”

Marty nodded and swallowed because, yeah, that was fair. He held the doorknob tighter, knuckles white, and only just managed to hold himself back from leaping onto the bed and ravishing Rust breathless. As their eyes met, a change came over Rust’s face; embarrassment gave way to fear, and he looked beseeching, worried, rolling his lip under his teeth and biting down into that strawberry shine.

“…D’you… like it? Is this… too weird for you?”

Marty laughed helplessly, an edge of hysteria to his voice. The anxiety in Rust’s face grew even more panicked.

“Yeah,” Marty croaked hoarsely, “yeah, I… I do like it.”

Rust looked relieved. He nodded, a tiny bob of his head, and Marty nearly fell over as he imagined those beautiful lips wrapped around his cock.

“Did you… Did you do this… all for me?”

Rust nodded again. “Wouldn’t do it for no one else, Marty. You best believe that I’ll cut off your dick if you tell anyone.”

Marty laughed hysterically again. He walked to the bedside table and put down his beer, picked up the phone, movements too fast and jerky to emulate even a semblance of calmness.

Rust shifted on the bed, alarmed. “What the fuck, Marty-”

“I ain’t callin’ nobody to tell ‘em about this, calm the fuck down,” Marty said, somewhat breathless as he dialled, “Just gimme a sec. Gotta cancel some plans for tonight.”

Rust relaxed, somewhat amused now that the danger had been averted. “You can still go out for drinks with your mates, Marty, this ain’t gonna take us long-”

“If you think I’m leavin’ this room at _any stage_ tonight with you lookin’ like _that,_ Rust, you’re more fuckin’ crazy than I realised.”

Rust smiled. It was then that Marty noticed his eyelashes were long and dark, his eyes simultaneously softened and brightened by makeup. And shit, the thing that really knocked Marty for six wasn’t that Rust was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen– it was that he’d actually done this, gone to all this effort and sought out clothes he’d never have otherwise been caught dead wearing.

 _All for me,_ Marty thought.

Seized by a sudden impulse, he reached into the crystal bowl beside the phone, picked up a square of caramel, not looking away from Rust’s eyes. It was then that Geraci picked up.

_“Hello?”_

“Hey, Steve,” Marty said, trying to keep his voice steady as he slowly moved the caramel towards Rust’s mouth, “gonna have to cancel tonight’s plans, sorry.”

_“What? Why the hell you gotta be doin’ that, Marty? We ain’t seen you for ages!”_

Rust’s glistening lips parted, and Marty’s breath caught in his throat. Rust’s white teeth sunk down into the orange caramel, like a knife through butter, and he closed his lips around the sweet as Marty’s fingers withdrew. His cheek bulged a little as he chewed, and Marty felt dizzy.

_“Marty, you son of a bitch, you there?”_

“Yeah, sorry,” Marty coughed, cleared his throat. The caramel had been melted slightly by the afternoon heat, and Rust’s lips were sticky with sugar as he swallowed, throat moving with the action. “Came down with somethin’,” Marty elaborated weakly, not having to fake the shaky listlessness of his voice, “don’t wanna mess y’all up.”

 _“Well, shit,”_ Geraci sighed, _“s’pose I can’t blame you for that.”_

“Yeah. Have a good one though, y’hear? Just ‘cause I can’t join you don’t mean nothin’.” Marty drew his thumb across Rust’s lips, smearing the mess of sugar and lip gloss, clenching his jaw when Rust flicked his tongue out to taste. Shit, Marty couldn’t handle the picture Rust made like this; looking up at Marty, eyes half-lidded and cheeks warm, body bathed in lace and light. Marty turned his wrist and Rust tipped his cheek into Marty’s palm, a curl of hair falling down his forehead. Like a fucking cat nuzzling against its owner’s hand.

_“A’ight, Marty. Feel better.”_

“Sure. Say hi to everyone for me, Steve.”

_“Will do.”_

Geraci hung up, and Marty had never been happier to finish a conversation in his life. He tossed the phone back onto the receiver, his other hand landing immediately on Rust’s cheek, both gentle and hurried with passionate impatience. He stooped, cupping Rust’s face as they kissed. He tasted caramel, strawberry, a hint of peppermint toothpaste, hypnotised by the glide of Rust’s tongue and the way that Rust arched off the bed, tattooed arms stretched out, hands pressing into sheets. They shifted, moving like they were bound by something invisible, until Marty was kneeling by the bed, looking up at the person he loved most in the world.

“You were reading the damn book upside down,” Marty whispered against his mouth.

“Wasn’t fuckin’ reading, just didn’t know what to do with myself.”

“I figured,” Marty slid his hand up into Rust’s hair, found the end of the white ribbon. He tugged at it gently, and then pulled back so that he could watch Rust’s hair spill over his shoulders, freshly washed curls soft under his fingers. Somehow, Marty felt this was appropriate; being on his knees, giving everything he had. It seemed fitting– in Marty's mind, at least– that Rust should be above him. With a halo of golden yellow framing him and dotting his blue eyes with yellow, painting the curves and angles of his face. Like some kind of fallen angel dropped into Marty’s life, all the more perfect for every scar that marred his skin.

Before Marty could say anything, before he could let devotion and poetry spill from his lips and out into the air, Rust whispered,

“Fuck, you’re beautiful, Marty.”

 Marty blinked, stunned. Rust reached down, seized his neck, dragging him up for a deep, heavy kiss.

“Come up here,” he continued, “need you, Marty. Need you so much-”

“Shit,” Marty hissed, practically jumping onto the bed. He straddled Rust, leaning over him. Rust’s hands gripped his neck, held him close. And fuck, it felt so _good–_ here he was, fully clothed, and Rust was practically naked under him, white lace clinging to his skin, fabric folded beneath him like a blanket. Like a crumpled wedding veil after the ceremony. Marty slid his hand down and he felt Rust’s legs part, a quiet sound hummed against his mouth as fingers caressed silk, palmed Rust through fabric.

“You’re so hard, Rust,”

“I know, you bastard, I _know_.” Rust groaned, kissing Marty messily, frantically. “Never would’a thought dressin’ like a woman could feel so damn good, don’t know what the hell you do to me, never would’a done this with _anyone else,_ Marty-”

“Yeah?” Marty shifted down the bed, caressing Rust’s body as he went. He got his knees under him, pressed his face into Rust’s hip, kissed lace and skin.

“Yeah, fuck,” Rust let his head fall back onto the pillow, “need you, Marty. C’mon.”

“So goddamn impatient.” Marty teased him, dragging his tongue up silk, eyes closed. He felt a flutter of nervousness in his chest as he hooked two fingers under the waistband of the panties; he’d never done this before. He’d never even come close.

He pulled down Rust’s underwear, didn’t bother tugging it further than midway down Rust’s thighs. He knew better than to try and deepthroat right off the bat, so he held Rust’s cock as tenderly as he dared, and kissed the tip of him, eyes closed.

“ _Fuck,”_ Rust’s voice was raw, somewhere between growling desperation and feeble whining. Encouraged, Marty swallowed him down, only as much as he was able, and felt one of Rust’s big hands in his hair, holding him so tenderly.

“Don’t,” Rust breathed, “Don’t push yourself, Marty, I know you ain’t ever- _fuck,_ yeah, do that again-”

Marty hummed around him, because he knew from personal experience how good that felt. Rust’s fingers tightened around the curve of his skull, and he _liked it,_ loved knowing that he was taking Rust apart with his mouth, dirtying all this pretty lace.

He wanted to make Rust come like this.

 

***

 

It hurt Marty’s throat more than he’d expected. After a long while of putting in his best effort, he pulled off Rust, coughing. Rust’s hands were immediately against his face, touching him, stroking his cheeks gently.

“Breathe for me,” Rust panted, “it’s okay, you can stop. I got you, Marty.”

His low voice, raw from the moans and gasps that had been ripped from his throat, was tender with empathy, with an understanding of what it meant to be inexperienced. Marty lifted himself up, crawled forward into Rust’s arms. He collapsed down, breathing hard, and Rust pulled him close.

“Sorry,” Marty sighed.

“No, no, you ain’t gotta apologise for nothin’.”

Marty nodded against his shoulder, feeling oddly tired. They lay still for a long while, quiet and content. It seemed odd to be laying still while they were both hard, but Marty was just glad to pause for a moment, gather his wits. He was still- absurdly- fully dressed. He could feel a sticky dampness inside his jeans, and the buckle of his belt was cutting into his stomach from all the time he’d spent sucking Rust off, so focussed on what he was doing that he’d stayed in the same place for too long.

It was getting dark outside, and when the ache in Marty’s jaw had started to subside he lifted himself up, reached across Rust and switched on the lamp. Before he withdrew, he grabbed a caramel sweet.

“You’re too damn patient with me,” he murmured, laying down again and taking a bite out of the caramel. The sweet taste was something of a reprieve from the unfamiliar taste of pre-cum.

“Nah,” Rust said, “just returnin’ the favour.”

Marty lowered the other half of the caramel down, pressed it against Rust’s lips. Rust looked up at him, obediently opened his mouth and ate it– but only after sliding his tongue around it obscenely. Marty’s reaction must’ve shown plainly on his face, because Rust smiled, soft affection in his eyes.

“You like that, don’t you? My mouth. Feedin’ me.”

“Yeah. Like all of you, if I’m bein’ honest,” Marty slid a hand up Rust’s chest, trailing salt caramel stickiness over the planes of his abdomen, the curves of his pecs, the edges of his tattoos, “but your lips, fuck…” he put his fingers against Rust’s mouth again, “…I love them, Rust.”

“Mm,” Rust hummed, “you wanna fuck my mouth?”

Marty considered that. “Tempting.”

“Just tempting?”

Marty smirked. He straightened up, undid the buttons on his shirt. He moved slowly, letting Rust watch.

“Wanna ride you again,” he explained, “you good with that?”

Rust gazed up at him, reaching up to brush a curl of hair behind one ear. With a chuckle, he reached down and slid the panties off his legs, flung them away and stretched, arching his back off the bed. He let out a contented sigh and folded his arms behind his head.

“You’re the birthday boy, Marty. You can have whatever you want.”

Marty grinned, pulled off his shirt and tossed it to the side, pulling off his singlet as well. He wasn’t all too fond of his body, of his softness and his roundness. He’d always viewed himself with contentment and resignation, not pleasure. But, as he was reaching down to unbuckle his belt, Rust looked him up and down, eyes lingering in all the right places– and Marty felt like the most attractive man on the planet.

“Like what you see?”

Rust’s eyes followed the movement of Marty’s hands. “You know I do.”

The clinking of metal was immediately followed by the hush of leather against denim, and Marty watched Rust watching him. He saw the desire in Rust’s eyes. The way his eyes zeroed in on Marty’s hand undoing his zipper, his tongue flickering out to touch his lips, as if searching for the strawberry taste they’d well and truly kissed away by this point.

“I want you inside me one day, Marty,” Rust murmured, “someday, when I’m ready. I want that.”

Marty’s hands stilled, but only for a moment. He then smiled and continued to undo his pants, shifting denim down his hips and lifting his knees so he could pull his jeans off.

“Whenever you’re ready, babe. You know I ain’t gonna pressure you to do nothin’.”

 

***

 

When he slid down onto Rust, he let his head tip back, his eyes close. Like a yawn, like a sigh, something so natural. So calm. Rust hissed under him, nails scraping across Marty’s thighs softly. Marty groaned, low and pleased, let himself adjust. Rust held him, and waited.

Then he started to move.

It was always like this, when Marty was on top. Rust would let him do as he pleased; he would lay beneath Marty, gripping flesh and moaning, but he wouldn’t turn them over, wouldn’t hoist Marty’s body higher and jerk up his hips. It was his way of giving in, of handing Marty the reigns. Marty loved it. He loved swaying his body to his own pace, watching Rust react, watching pleasure slacken his face and spark life into his dim eyes.

“Love it when we do this,” he whispered, words punctured by the effort of bucking, one hand planted on Rust’s sternum, “you like this Rust, huh? D’you like this?”

“Yeah,” Rust breathed, “dunno why you even need to ask.”

“Like hearin’ you say it. Love hearin’ you say it.”

He knew he wouldn’t last, not as long as he wanted. It was never as long as he wanted. So he moved as fast as he could, ignoring the ache in his lower back and throwing caution to the wind– it was all worth it for the spark and the burn, the feeling of molten desire that built in him like something magical, something otherworldly that filled him to the brim with feelings he couldn’t even begin to control. He reached down, put two fingers in Rust’s mouth. He didn’t even need to ask. Rust closed his eyes, sucked on Marty’s fingers, cheeks hollowing as if he were smoking a cigarette, as if he were on his knees in front of Marty.

“Yeah,” Marty breathed, “yeah, that’s it.”

He didn’t make any claims of finesse or sexual prowess, not in this particular position. It was all too new for him. But it didn’t matter, when Rust was filling him up so perfectly.

The bedposts were slamming against the wall now, and Marty just _knew_ his neighbours were going to complain tomorrow. He’d had a very long relationship with them that had consisted of many complaints and calls to the police that were met with laughs on the other end of the line, and jokes over coffee at the station the following morning. He knew that being a civilian would probably mean that those reports would start to stick, but shit, he didn’t care.

He didn’t care about anything except Rust.

He moved faster, faster, and he didn’t hold back his moans, even as they became high-pitched, even as he was so sensitive he could barely stand to move at all. He shook with it, trying to hold on. Not touching himself. Rust just looked up at him, mouth hanging open with dazed limpness, as if he were drugged by it all. By the sensations of heat and flesh, the obscene noises they made, the sight of Marty looking down at him.

But it wasn’t the visceral delights that pushed them over the edge. It was the unspoken, the unsaid. It was the look in their eyes, the vulnerability and the pleasure. The knowledge of what was between them. In a word; love. Love was what made Marty bow over, crying out as he trembled, Rust’s arms rising to pull him close. They bucked and shook, lost in oblivion, foreheads pressed together.

“Fuck,” Marty whimpered, hips jerking helplessly, “fuck, fuck, fuck,”

Rust panted against Marty’s cheek, held him tight.

It was a while before they moved.

 

 


End file.
